Kvasir

Two tribes of gods had been at war. To seal the peace, both spat into one vat. Nobody watched what anyone else put in.

From the spit they made a man. Kvasir. There was no question he could not answer. He went everywhere, answering.

Two dwarves killed him. They drained his blood into three vessels, stirred in honey, and made a mead. Whoever drinks it becomes a poet, or a scholar.

They told the gods: Kvasir choked on his own knowledge. No one was learned enough to ask him a question.

A giant hid the mead inside a mountain. Odin crawled in as a snake, lay three nights with the giant's daughter, and drank it all. He flew home as an eagle with the giant behind him, and spat the mead into the gods' jars. The gods keep it. They pour it for whom they choose.

Some he let go out the back. Nobody guards that share. Anyone may drink it. It is called the poetaster's portion.

You are drinking from it now.